


the spaces in between

by superstringtheory



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: (come on Hannibal fandom I swear you all would have a tag for that already), M/M, Wound Fucking, mostly hurt little comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-28
Updated: 2016-12-28
Packaged: 2018-09-12 19:00:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9085729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/superstringtheory/pseuds/superstringtheory
Summary: Bucky is injured on a mission with Steve and Natasha, and remembers a terrible time with Pierce.





	

**SIBERIA. 1988.**

 

Ignition. Hiss of burning skin, flash of bright light.

Pupils constricting, ears pricking at the sound of a wrapper tearing.

“Don't wanna get AIDS or whatever else your blood is crawling with,” Pierce says, and the Soldier’s eyes briefly turn to him, glinting dully in the light like an alloyed metal.

He's bleeding only sluggishly by now, the serum militantly instructing his cells like a nonlethal cancer. Multiply, divide, heal. Erase the fact that this ever happened.

“Have to measure first,” Pierce tells him, and somehow the Soldier hadn’t noted this before, but Pierce is naked from the waist down, and he’s erect, being led around by the cock like a horse by the nose.

Pierce fits his thumb and pointer finger around the circumference of his cock, and places this circle over the hole in the Soldier’s side, not seeming to mind any blood. He ‘hmms’ in thought, and then grins.

“Your lucky day, pal. Looks just right.”

The Soldier turns his eyes again, away this time, as if he could escape the restraints and the mortal plane and HYDRA, all at once.

But then Pierce is inside him, in the spaces between his internal organs and the Soldier can't even cry out: there is nowhere he can go now where Pierce is not. 

 

***

 

**MOSCOW. 2016.**

 

“Bucky. Bucky. Hey. Hey.” Steve's voice, skipping and repeating like a broken record. “I've gotcha. Stay with me, honey.”

“He's losing blood fast. Jesus Christ, how did this happen?” Natasha this time, a glint of copper haloed in harsh sunlight.

Rooftop. Russia. It’s always goddamn Russia, isn’t it? It’s always winter, and it’s always Russia, and nothing about this is ever going to change.

“Buck.” His eyes look the same as they did in 1945, and in 2013, and this morning. Steve is a constant, and Bucky has always been variable.

He coughs, and that red on the snow could be Steve’s shield or it could be his own blood, who knows and who the hell cares.

He coughs and it feels like someone’s driving an ice pick in between his ribs, and Steve leans over him again and then his eyes roll back and all he sees is white.

Bucky is the space between the words on the page.

 

***

 

**1988.**

 

The Soldier is the blank part at the end of a chapter; the black after the credits roll. He is less than white noise yet he is frustratingly, irritatingly still _here_.

“This isn't for you,” Pierce tells him. “Because the other times, when you begged, I know you liked it. This, this is for me. Just me.”

It doesn't hurt anymore, not exactly. It's not pleasant, something like a half foot rod stirring around the spaces in your abdomen, but the Soldier supposes it could be worse. It could always be worse. He could be getting turned on by this; he could be panting around about it himself. That at least these synapses aren't crossed seems like a small favor, supplication to a god long dead and gone.

“I put on two condoms, you know,” Pierce says, and the Soldier barely hears him. He is dust motes and snowflakes and the spaces between a train and the frozen ground so far below.

He is far away but never far enough.

He’s never been fucked like this before-- even after decades of HYDRA, it’s not something he’d have ever thought of. Pierce is thrusting, he’s balls-deep in viscera, and the Soldier vaguely wonders how much is this like necrophilia? He surely feels dead.

The Soldier’s eyes are shut, shut tightly until Pierce shudders against him, gripping the metal arms of the chair.

The Soldier opens his eyes, then blinks away the afterimage like he's just stared into the sun.

It burns, and right now, all he wants is to feel cold again until he can't feel anything anymore.

 

***

 

**2016.**

 

“He's gonna heal around it if you don’t do it soon.” Natasha, hair whipping in the wind, frost crusting on her eyelashes.

Steve’s fist is inside him, feeling around, pinching at a slippery piece of metal, his brow furrowed in concentration. Are his fingers cold? Does his other hand wish it could be warmed by Bucky’s internals, too?

Steve pinches, and pinches again, and when his fist reemerges, bloody up to the wrist, Bucky shudders, and makes a sound a little like a pained groan.

The Soldier’s-- _Bucky’s_ \-- body spasms, and when he opens his eyes to white sky, he could be anywhere, anywhere at all.

But it’s Russia. It’s winter. The same way it’s always going to be.

It’s 2016.

(It’s 1988.)

**Author's Note:**

> Aka, the fic that made me say, "I'm going to hell and my seat there will be right on Satan's dick."


End file.
